


Done and Done

by trinityofone



Category: Boa vs. Python (2004), First Monday (TV 2002)
Genre: Closeted Character, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-19
Updated: 2006-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29506275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: In horror and disaster movies, there was always some uptight, pretentious guy who nobody liked, who died in a humiliating manner while everyone in the audience cheered.
Relationships: Emmett (Boa vs. Python)/Julian Lodge
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Done and Done

Julian had seen enough horror and disasters movies, little snippets caught flipping between C-SPAN and FOXNews, to know that there was always some guy, some uptight, pretentious guy who nobody liked who died in a ridiculous, humiliating manner while everyone in the audience snickered and cheered. They were often lawyers, like the one in _Jurassic Park_ who abandoned the small, innocent children, hid in a toilet stall, and got munched on by the T-Rex. They were all supposedly smart men who made one stupid decision and got killed for it.

Julian thought those movies were idiotic and puerile, but they weren’t a bad metaphor for life. One mistake, one step out of line, and you were _done_. Julian knew better.

Yet when the giant snake rocketed out into the middle of a Pennsylvania country road and slammed its body down on the hood of Julian’s car, he did possibly the stupidest thing imaginable. He got out and ran.

As he stumbled down a ditch and broke toward the woods, Julian was dimly aware of the voice screaming in the back of his brain, the one telling him that he was being a moron, that he was done for. He felt his lungs burning and panic beating in his chest, and several bubbles of irrational thought, rising to the surface. _Odd color for a snake_ and _I’m going be late for the reunion_ and _Ha, ‘late’_ and even: _Really doubt they’ll miss me._

It was over extraordinarily quickly. He heard the swish of the snake moving through the grass, and then his feet were swept out from under him and he was looking into a gigantic gaping maw and his whole life was not so much flashing as trudging dully by.

Then there was a shout, and he was flat on his back in the grass, and a man was looming over him, combat boots and cargo pants and tight black t-shirt, wide mouth turned down into a frown. “Are you all right?”

He was not all right. He was so far from all right. His lungs were on fire and his entire body was shaking. He’d gotten mud all over a $2,500 suit.

He’d almost died.

“I almost died,” Julian said. Saying it out loud made it seem realer than the actual near-death-by-snake experience had been. His life had almost ended. Terminated. Over, _finis_. He’d almost been Julian Lodge, deceased: eaten alive by a snake in Pennsylvania. Before he’d ever _done_ anything.

“Yeah,” said the man. His lips quirked up. “Good thing you led him over to me, hm? Otherwise I don’t think I would have gotten to you in time. Oh,” he added, a moment later, and extended a hand to help Julian up.

Julian accepted. Or he meant to. His hand closed around the other man’s, and Julian found he was suddenly hyper-aware of a score of little details: the stretch of the muscles in his arm; the warmth and strength of the other man’s hand; the little patch of skin, pale along his side, that showed when he bent over, and that tight black shirt rode up.

He had almost died. A few seconds’ difference and he would have shuffled off this mortal coil. Julian had never really thought about death before. Not his own: he had thought himself too good for death. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t above death, or fear, or anything else.

His hand was still clasped against that of the man who had saved him, who had given one half-hearted upward tug and then gone still, staring at him. Julian stared back, taking in all the things he usually took care not to notice. Broad shoulders and strong biceps, intense blue eyes and clever-looking mouth. Firm curve of ass, accentuated by the rear-pockets of the cargo pants. He was leaning forward, stance welcoming; all Julian had to do was pull.

The man landed on top of him with a shocked little huff, not nearly as shocked as Julian was to have done it, to be doing it, to be putting a hand on the back of this stranger’s neck and kissing his wide, clever mouth. It was a brief kiss: all Julian had the courage for. He released the man and sat back, waiting for the punch of the kick or whatever it was strapping snake-killers did to skinny little—

Then man was eyeing him curiously. He licked his lips. “Was that just adrenaline or did you really want...?”

For once, Julian had no idea what he wanted. He was lying on the ground next to a dead snake and his pants were muddy and his dick was hard. He wanted a long, long shower, and he wanted to push up his rescuer’s shirt with his nose and lick his stomach.

His fingers jerked.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with adrenaline,” the man said, lowering himself down, putting his stomach in perfect range of Julian’s thumbs if not his mouth. “You’re _really_ hot.”

No one had ever called Julian hot before, at least not to his face. He’d been called handsome a few times and “annoyingly pretty” an awful lot. But hot people were people with greasy chests and tans who wore tight shirts and too-tight trousers. People like the man who was currently kissing him, opening up his mouth, and Julian was opening, greedily sucking on the other man’s tongue—and sure, blame it on adrenaline. The only other explanation he could think of was that he actually _had_ died, and this was heaven (couldn’t be) or hell (didn’t seem like it). All he knew for sure was that living had never felt like this.

It had never felt like strong male fingers sliding underneath the buttons of his suit jacket, opening him like a piece of fruit, peeling the layers back. They were kissing, hips rocking together; Julian threw a leg over the other man’s thigh and pulled him tighter. “I suppose this is one benefit of getting out of my lab and doing government jobs,” the man was saying, and at the word _government_ , Julian went still, but the comment wasn’t really directed at him. Not like the man’s kisses, his stubbled cheek brushing across Julian neck as he undid Julian’s tie and ripped open his shirt collar; Julian would have been surprised to learn that he was baring his throat, offering it up. The other man took it with a gentle sweep of tongue and guided Julian’s hands to the top button of his fly.

“I’m Emmett, by the way,” the man said. “I figured you should know, since you’re going to be touching my dick.”

Julian shuddered. The man was trying to remedy their lack of proper introduction, and the polite thing to do would be to answer with his own name. But he didn’t, Julian didn’t...

“Or not,” the other man—Emmett—said, sensing Julian’s hesitance, drawing back. Julian thought he saw the sense coming back into his eyes, the adrenaline leaving—which really wasn’t fair, since Julian’s vision was still cloudy with it. Mutely, he clutched at Emmett’s shoulders, holding him down. “Ju—Julian,” he stuttered, “I—”

He found Emmett’s fly again, freed his cock. It felt huge in his hand, weighty; it felt good, really good, reacting to his touch. Emmett moaned and Julian moaned, and then his cock was in Emmett’s hand, and their cocks and hands were pressed together, they were moving, Emmett’s body rippling over his. Time had slowed the second the snake had slithered out of the grass, and it still hadn’t snapped back to normal: every motion felt slow and liquid and drawn out. Emmett’s thumb flicking over the head of his cock; and the rolling of their hips; and the suck and sweep of Emmett’s tongue; and Emmett’s shirt riding up, revealing a stretch of stomach that wasn’t bronze and toned, after all, but pale and soft over the clenching muscles, and Julian still wanted to kiss it.

Julian kissed Emmett like each new press of lips, every slide of tongue against tongue, would be the one to kill him. But he lived. He lived.

It was Emmett shuddering, Emmett coming all over their hands and over Julian’s cock and his chest, that made Julian follow him over the edge. His head fell back against the dirt—hard, except that Emmett reached out and cupped the back of his neck. _Thanks_ , he felt like saying—horribly inadequate, considering that the man had saved his life— _and_ brought him off in the middle of a field in Pennsylvania. But he still wasn’t sure that the emotion he felt was gratitude.

That blind, heady feeling was receding—adrenaline leaving his body. He lay back against the grass, Emmett beside him and half on top of him. He felt sleepy and drained and still somewhat shocked: he was alive. There were leaves in his hair and come on his chest and he couldn’t find his tie and he had almost been killed by a giant snake and he’d had sex with a man and he was alive.

No one at the reunion was going to believe him. Maybe he wouldn’t go.


End file.
